


The Squirrel Analogy.

by lia_bezdomny



Series: The Squirrel and his Goldfish. [1]
Category: Mystrade - Fandom, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Hangover, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mystrade is everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lia_bezdomny/pseuds/lia_bezdomny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg wakes up with a giant hangover, no recollection of the events of the previous evening and Mycroft in his bed. And apparently the elder Holmes doesn't do hook-ups.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Squirrel Analogy.

Greg wakes up with a hangover that would do a Roman orgy proud. Naturally, he swears to never touch a single drop of alcohol again, if God, Buddha or Johnny Walker would just take the pain in his head away. Of course none of these divine beings listen.

He tries to piece last nights events together, as good as he can. That's right, he went to Sherlock's birthday party and of course, the consulting detective was as insufferable as ever. John threatened to quit, Mrs. Hudson told a delightful story about her husband's execution, he had around 10 beers and then they left. _They left,_ _as in hi_ _m and someone else._ And if the feeling in his lower body is any indication, it was not just an innocent sleep over. 

_Ohoh._

Even with his massive headache he is very aware of the other person in his bed.

_Please, don't let it be someone that works for me!_

This time, his silent prayer is answered and he has to try his hardest not to laugh. Instead of a subordinate, the man who is white knuckling the covers next to him, is Mycroft Holmes. 

_Mycroft “I AM THE GOVERNMENT” Holmes._ And now, he doesn't feel like laughing anymore. _  
_

Of all the people in the whole entire world, he has to land in bed with someone who can probably jail him for treason. Or jaywalking.

Mycroft still doesn't move a muscle. Maybe, he pretends to be a squirrel. They have the tendency to still themselves, when they sense danger. Because he has no idea what else to do, he grins weakly and waves his hand.

 

“Inspector.” “Given the circumstances, I think, we should refer to each other by our first names.” Maybe it isn't the smartest move to joke around now. But Greg's brain is rarely his friend at the best of times and certainly not, right after a shag. Even if he can't remember a thing. Which was a pity. Behind the aura of contempt and that posh demeanour, he always kind of fancied him. Not that he is particularly proud of that.

“Circumstances?” “Sex.” Mycroft gives him a dubious look.

“We had sex?” “Yep.”

“Are you sure?” “Yes. Should I elaborate how I know?” Because he is quite certain, that Mycroft would inquire further, if not stopped. Thankfully, he shakes his head.

“So. What is the protocol here?” He finally moves and props himself up against the headboard. Greg smirks at that and drags his hand through his hair. The man next to him is not as amused as he is, and narrows his eyes.

“I don't think there is a protocol for drunken hook-ups, Mycroft.” “There has to be.” _And if there isn't, I will draw one up, damn it!_ Is clearly what he thinks right now.

“Well, you keep on looking, I'm sure you'll find it. I need to take a shower and have a coffee… Or if you'd like to go first, be my guest.” Mycroft scrunches up his nose and it looks adorable. Maybe Greg wasn't that far of with his squirrel analogy. Then he remembers that he is an adult and simply directs his bedfellow to the bathroom.

Mycroft emerges about ten minutes later, mumbles something about “an appointment” and basically runs out of the flat. Greg is pretty sure that his scarlet red face has nothing to do with the temperature of the water, and laughs for what feels like half an hour, before he also takes a shower.

***

“How was your weekend, sir?” Donovan hands him a coffee and a case file.

“Oh, you know. The usual. Catching up on sleep, laundry, lunch with my daughter, went to see Sherlock.” _Had sex with his brother._ _Tried to remember how it was to have sex with his brother. Gave up on that and watched a lot of porn._

“That explains it.” “Explains what?” She points to his office.

“The presence of the elder Holmes in there.” Greg is usually able to understand English, even heavy Scouse. But the words, she'd just said made absolutely no sense.

 

Mycroft sits in one of the two chairs in his office and fiddles with the handle of his umbrella.

“You are late, inspector.” He takes his coat off and puts his coffee on the desk before taking a seat as well.

“I'm not late. I work 9 to 6. It is 8.55. And I thought we were past the titles and surnames.” Mycroft nods and leans his umbrella against the chair.

“Very well, Gregory. I think we need to talk.” “Do we now?” Greg gets the feeling that this conversation would be more of a monologue, so he prepares himself, mentally.

 _I was drunk, I am not gay,_ the default response of repressed men. He knows it, he can deal with it and he will move on.

“Yes, we do.” “Alright then. Talk.”

“I don't do this sort of thing.” “Listen, Mycroft. I have no desire to blackmail you, okay? We were drunk, we had some fun,” _At least I think we did._ Is naturally left unsaid. 

“No big deal. And I can keep things to myself. No need for you to use your intimidation tactics.” The elder Holmes looks irritated. He obviously isn't used to be interrupted.

“What are you talking about?” “Is this not the point where you give me that whole _“I am the government, take this indiscretion to your grave”_ -speech?” Now, the scrunched up face doesn't look adorable anymore. It looks insulted.

“No, this is the _“Would you like to accompany me to dinner”_ … _Speech_ , Gregory.” Maybe Greg overestimated his grasp on the English language. He was always better in P.E. from year one to sixth form.

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Yes, date was a stupid word to use in this situation but it was either that or _“Is_ _his_ _lordship_ _expressing his desire to_ _court me?”_.

“I don't do _hook-ups_ , as you put it, so eloquently. And the things I can remember from our encounter were quite satisfying. I would like to explore this.” He doesn't know what to say to all of this. There he was, Mycroft Holmes, the bloke even the Queen had to schedule an appointment with, asking him out. That was a lot to take in.

“Gregory, please close your mouth. You look like a goldfish.” “Fucking hell, Mycroft. Contain your charm. I'm getting all fluttery.” He sighs and knows he has to come clean.

“I am glad, that you've enjoyed our time together but to be honest, apart from the morning after sourness, I can't remember a thing.” “You can't remember it.”

“Sorry.” The elder Holmes starts to play with his umbrella again and suddenly, the threat of incarceration creeps back into Greg's mind.

“That doesn't mean, you were rubbish or anything. I just…” _Bugger_. _Maybe I'll get a cell with a nice view. There had to be prisons like that somewhere._

“Then I think we should refresh your memory.” That sly grin should be outlawed, along with the seductive tone it was accompanied by. How was a grown man suppose to say anything intelligible, if confronted with such a deadly combination? So Greg doesn't even try and just mutters:

“Re… Huh?”

“Goldfish, inspector.” “Oh, piss off you posh bugger!” The grin now rivals that of the Cheshire Cat and Greg knows he has been played. 

“I will pick you up at eight tonight, and please brush up on your conversation skills. As I said, I did enjoy our evening but I expect more from a potential partner.” He gets up, takes his umbrella and leaves the office without another word.

When Donovan stops by a few minutes later to brief him on a case, he still sits in his chair and tries to process the whole conversation.

He feels frustrated, insulted and very much turned on. And the worst thing is: He has nothing to wear.


End file.
